


A Silessian Tragedy

by Sacrulen



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Flowery prose befitting that of a dramatic prince, Gen, Intentionally mediocre poetry, Lewyn being Lewyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18750451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sacrulen/pseuds/Sacrulen
Summary: Lewyn experiences the commoner's life as he fancies and as he doesn't. An exploration of Lewyn's early life through his time as a wandering bard.





	A Silessian Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as Lewyn described himself in heroes as a feckless minstrel I knew his inner monologue would sound like a thesaurus, and thus this was born.

The moment Lewyn brandished his brand new lute to the maids who attended to him in the mornings, they had thought him mad. He had paid far too much of his money for it to a salesman whom his mother cast from the castle town shortly after for thievery. If he was trying to impress a lady, they all told him, then she must have incredibly strange taste. What self-respecting woman would care for a lute of all instruments? They knew of pianos, of violins, of the cello and perhaps they had fashioned a flute out of grass in their playful youths, but a lute was foreign to the drawing rooms of the nobility here. Even the serfs in the fields did not care for lutes; they hummed simple dirges to accompany their work and had no hands free to try and twang at strings.

In Silesse, much to Lewyn's annoyance, music was for the chamber. It formed the backdrop to unimportant conversations held by men and women of stature. It was not performed but listened to. Those who played the instruments did so with a sheet of broadside in front of them, and they were conducted properly so as not to draw too much attention to themselves. It was not part of the entertainment, but an expensive ornament on the fireplace that formed a puzzle piece to the gathering.

His uncle in Zaxon had employed his usual quartet to play when he invited Lewyn and his mother to a quiet lunch, which is how he knew it was going to be anything but pleasant. After the second round of tea and a dip in the music his uncle grinned hideously spoke, "my boy Lewyn, if you become king..." It was as though his uncle had complete ignorance of Forseti blessing him, and only him, as the true heir! Both of his uncles had such a thirst for the throne that they should make the most excellent of kings through sheer determination alone. If that is how they carry themselves around the heir of their homeland, then how would they treat the conscripts they would charge into battle for their chance at ruling once this inept prince had happened upon the crown? Would they be numbers on a page, or perhaps something lower? Men of import did not have any earthly idea of the amount of grain that went into the flour that made their bread. Why would they ever deign to think of such trivialities? Lewyn had excused himself from the wretched meal early and spat in the snow on the castle grounds, to the disgust of Annand who had accompanied them, but there was a sour taste in his mouth from the tainted ink that formed that tea that had finally seeped into his heart.

He had an inkling of an idea in his mind long before then, to trade the stark white walls of his birthright for a well-trodden dirt path. Nothing but a few belongings on his back, hard-earned coins in his pocket, no throne in sight and now, a lute case in his left hand. It would be his lifeblood, his provender, his soul and very being. The audacity of his uncles had at least one benefit to Lewyn: it turned that blue sky daydream, pecked with wispy clouds, into a firm and genuine plan. Erinys and Annand had both kindly informed him on numerous occasions that his blissful reverie was nothing more than a sign of eccentric recklessness and idiocy that only a prince could get away with expressing. According to them, his skill with the instrument was so dire beyond help that he would be running back, tail between his legs, within three days of leaving the castle doors. But there were those who took him seriously and complemented his deft fingers over the strings. His mother, even, had been one of them, and she was far from a doe-eyed and untried maid who swooned at the thought of the young prince even considering her existence. He had regailed to her a heroic song of his own composition, stood in the centre of her lounge and sang of the crusaders, battles and blood spilled in the desert, and of gods descending on mortal men and granting them the succor they so needed to vanquish evil and save mankind at their most desperate hour.

His mother gave him a simple smile on the closing note. "Have you been reading your father's books in the library, Lewyn?" She had asked him. _No, mother!_ He had heard the tale a thousand times over and had no need to read about it on paper. Words on a page can not describe the tale half as well as a voice and tune! And to that, she told him it was a lovely tale, and his uncles barred themselves into their castles and assembled their armies, and Lewyn realised that he had decided his future for himself a long time ago.

The most interesting part of his travels were the taverns, where he spent most of his time playing. In Leonster, his first destination, they were quiet and moody places, dimly lit by ill-kept lanterns and visited by no one looking for a good time. People murmured their conversations and kept to themselves, and if Lewyn did anything more than hum a quiet tune over his background music then he would be glanced at sideways as though he had just declared himself emperor of Jugdral. It was stuffy. It reminded him far too much of home, inside those alehouses and outside, with the grand displays of power from the rulers. Knights marched through the town once a moon in full armour and brandishing their lances to reassure everyone that they were the most steadfast and just force. Women threw flowers at the horses' feet, where their petals were trampled and pushed into the gravel of the ground.

He had wanted to journey on to Thracia, where the dracoknights ran wild, for surely they would appreciate a better laugh than these knights, but they had refused him at the border and no amount of arguing or sulking would change their mind. He wanted to brandish something to demonstrate his status, or declare this an official visit and then sneak away before his mother could find him, but he knew that blowing his cover would mean a battalion of pegasus knights on his heels almost immediately. He had done his best to put images out of his mind of Annand, Erinys and his mother, searching for Lewyn through the castle, checking at Sailane, checking even with his uncles though she knew he would never go there without being forced to... He only wished she realised his only ask without him there to tell her: for her to simply throw the crown to whoever wanted it after she didn't want to rule anymore.

Grannvale was his next destination, and they barely had any taverns so to speak. People congregated at the inns to talk and socialise but rarely was there alcohol involved. It was so alien to what Lewyn was used to. Even in Silesse, they had fermented grains, clear as ice, to drink. Leonster and Manster had been fans of pale ale, specialty brews depending on the tavern and the men were fiercely attached to their favourite. What had occurred in Grannvale to make them all so dry? To Lewyn it must have been the effect of the bland monarchy, fraught with the dramatic court intrigue that he had been trying his best to flee from. It dripped through the castle moats and into the rivers, and that was what the peasants drank for pleasure. It was all they spoke about! Frantic gossip about a war brewing with Isaach, the King and their sole handsome prince, and does this mean that House Chalphy would send troops out to fight and don't they know that will only welcome more bandit attacks from the west? It was tiring, and not even good enough to form a song from. They had nary any time to even flip him a coin.

There was a portrait of a noble youth in the last inn Lewyn stayed at who was the exact kind of dandy pretty boy he expected the prince of a Duchy in Grannvale to be. Even though it was only a painting Lewyn could tell they wouldn't get along. His cravat was perfectly fluffed, his hair was combed down neatly and his hands, perfect and pale rested on a sword that he would probably never swing with force in his life. It was so fairy tale that it made Lewyn scowl and despise the man despite them being bound to him by the blood of the crusaders that made them both royalty.

Verdane was a doghouse. There was no better way to describe the absolute anarchy that raged in every one of their gathering places. Men would drink out in the streets and become so intoxicated that they would yell at whatever happened to be in their line of sight. It shocked Lewyn at first. He was an easy target for abuse and he feared he would be robbed of what little money he had left, but at least in the pubs he was a welcome presence, and the barmen would protect him where they could manage it. Songs meant happy drinking customers, and the coin was always more free-flowing when their owners wouldn't have any memory of spending it the next day. Though, whatever Lewyn tried to sing he would never get to finish, for his patrons would begin to drunkenly yell over him a song that made his refined voice sorely stick out. That, or they'd break out in a brawl so big that it left Lewyn ushered out of the back door clutching his lute case to his chest and counting his blessings that his unspoken accord with the barmen kept him unharmed.

At least the women there appreciated his sensitivities. He would stand in the town centre or orchards where they worked by day and serenade them if he ever felt downtrodden or poor. They would gather and coo at him as though he was a small kitten or a lost child. They liked his green hair and pale skin, and the regal air that his ridiculous getup he had fashioned for himself gave. The fur on his head, he would tell them, was the kill trophy of a Thracian Dracoknight, and Lewyn had stolen it from under their nose as he felt it was too beautiful for such an unrefined man. They loved that story, and none were any the wiser that the headpiece had in fact been found abandoned in an alley of the Evans castle town.

After Verdane was Agustria, and it brought in him a sense of familiarity and comfort that he had been lacking on his long journey so far. Song bustled through Augustria like a river, and the people drank from it hand to mouth like they had just walked 40 days through the Yied Desert. In the home, mothers would hum lullabies to their children, composed from the murky memories of what their mother hummed to them, and the babe would continue the cycle when they themselves were of age. Sailors and mercenaries, knights and peasants filled every alehouse by the whispy glow of the moon and sang a harmonious brawl of sea shanties and drinking songs and marching anthems while the maids carried beer and spirits from the bar to the tables, then threw off their shoes and climbed up to dance. Long skirt hems frolicked over ankles and the mens' hands slapped any surface they could find in a steady beat to dance to until everyone finished their song and erupted in a raucous cheer.

Lewyn spent most evenings in the taverns. Some he would play the centre stage, and tell a story dotted with song and suspense, drama and deities that towered over men until the men prevailed. He enjoyed those nights, eyes stuck on his animated storytelling, free-flowing liquor and the pressured silence as everyone grasped at the words of his climax. Sometimes they applauded and cheered, which Lewyn would always humbly accept with a bow and a wave as he had seen his father do when crowds of his citizens listened to his addresses.

Other nights he spent in the corner, simply busking on the strings of his lute. There was always some form of entertainment in the pubs. When it wasn't him, it would be young women in skimpy outfits twirling themselves around the drunkards and eking out the last few coins from their satchels. The girl at it tonight was a veteran, green haired like him and who looked both far too young to be doing this and sultry enough to be the most seasoned dancer in the country. She had tried it on with him a few times, draping herself on his lap with her bony arms reaching around his neck and soft lips tickling at his ears. She wanted stories of princesses rescued from towers by gallant princes. They were make-believe stories that would send any other girl her age to a placid sleep, but she would giggle and draw out more and more details from him, wriggling in his lap and running a hand through his hair. If she ever found out the truth about him, she would throw herself down at his feet and tell him that those nights they'd slept together meant true love, that he had to marry her as a good prince would. In sobriety it was pitiful.

"She's impressive, isn't she?"

Lewyn had been staring so hard at the dancer toying with her prey for the night that he had failed to notice he had company at his table. It was a tall man, pale and slightly aged face which was cast orange in the light of the lantern. He was Augustrian from the look of his hair, which was light and wavy and pulled back into a ponytail. That style was fashionable mostly among richer men who let their hair grow, Lewyn knew, as most men were required to cut their hair short when they took up fighting jobs.

"More eager to work than half the mercenaries here, I would think," Lewyn spoke in return.

"Raphael," the man said, with a hand outstretched. Lewyn eyed it through narrowed eyes before deciding to shake it. Raphael was wearing a heavy jacket, brown and shabby like any other common customer of the tavern. Unlike any other customer, however, his slender frame was almost drowned by it. His hands were softer than Lewyn's, and underneath the sleeve of his coat, he caught the glimmer of a golden cufflink in the light of the lantern that hung above his table. Raphael was worse at blending in than Lewyn was, and he made it a point to be as noticeable as possible.

"Clement," Lewyn said and gestured toward the seat opposite him. "I suppose you've ventured over here for something a bit more than introductions?"

"You've a shrewd mind, Clement," he said, and he gestured for a maid holding empty tankards in her arms. "Here, an ale for me if you please, whatever you're serving the most tonight will do. For my companion..."

"Same for me, Marion," Lewyn said, and the fact that he remembered her name made the maid smile, toothy and redfaced and scurry away to serve them.

Raphael leaned his elbows on the table to rest his chin on the back of his hands. "Now, I wouldn't say I'm a collector of tales," he started, "but I do enjoy hearing what traveling bards like you have gathered on your journeys." He rummaged in his pocket briefly, bringing out some change which he cast across the table at Lewyn. Three gold coins spun and settled before him.

"That will more than suffice for a tale," Lewyn laughed. "Why, I daresay you could afford a week's worth of stories with a display of wealth as grand as that and I'd run out of adventures to tell!" He took a coin in his hand and held it up to the light. It was dirty but real enough. "Why the whole pub will be so positively bored by the sound of my voice by the end of it that you'll be the last one remaining," he continued, which made Raphael give a hearty laugh.

They were joined again by Marion, who had returned with two tankards full to the brim with alcohol and balanced on a tray wet with spillings. It was always a marvel to Lewyn that she managed to move through the crowd without them clattering over someone and causing a scene. She gave a curtsey to Lewyn and a quick one to his drinking partner and excused herself to serve more of the thirsty crowd gathering around the dancer.

Raphael lifted his drink and held it to Lewyn as though toasting. "It is quality that I ask for and not quantity. I only hope you have a few tales I haven't heard before."

Lewyn took up his lute, plucked a few strings to tune, and hummed his planned melody to test his voice. When he confined himself to his corner the patrons rarely gathered around him when he sang. Despite that it always felt to him as though the pub quietened around his songs, revering and respecting the music he formed. When he played now he always drooped his eyes closed as though in a trance, and concentrated himself on his fingers and his voice, willing them to harmony for his opening piece.

_Through dew and dell through murky land_  
_a mystic spirit finds her rest_  
_Held in a gnarled aged forest's hand_  
_and in a lake her soul bequest_

_For travellers, she is but tale_  
_a phantom deigned to stalk their path_  
_And none shall stumble on her grail_  
_unless they crave to witness wrath_

_But in her blood do dragons run_  
_the great force sees and hears no plea_  
_In velvet skin, and hair silk spun,_  
_and caustic eyes, no clemency._

_O glorious Heim he did forgive_  
_But his great soul could cure no mire_  
_For Loptyr's curse holds its captive_  
_and in her breast, the growing ire_

_So in that forest, she do dwell_  
_The bark, the branch, it forms her gaol_  
_And should she break out of that shell_  
_An age of darkness do entail._

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate feedback for future chapters 😊


End file.
